Sand Wedge
A firm leather grip held the Cobra
as we stood huddled around our friend,
a chosen youngster, touched with magic,
in control of the rust-colored head
as if he pulled on a concealed thread
attached to each blow of the club face,
chip shots skipping to a complete stop,
and his talent was something to see,
but never really impressed girls,
only we young men growing older
each time he collected our money.
His glowing father stood unaware
that the sand wedge now belonged
in his son's quiver—a hefty price
to encumber for the wizardly wand
now gone from its pro shop display.
On this day, in consideration
to a distant, final plea, he turned
with a big smile and voiced approval
to charge it on the family account
thinking it was only the boy’s ask
for one more chicken salad sandwich.
Author’s note: This poem captures a personal moment of camaraderie and the innocence of my growing up—a subtlety and depth juxtaposing the almost magical skill of a young golfer with the gentle humor of a father’s endearing misunderstanding, all within the familiar setting of our hometown golf course.
“You know what they say about big hitters…the woods are full of them.”
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